


Flowers for Bellerophon

by sherwoodfox



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Devotion, Eventual Happy Ending, Flirting, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hanahaki Disease, Jealousy, Love at First Sight, M/M, Major Illness, Narcissism, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Canon, Romanticism, Self-Denial, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexism, Suicidal Thoughts, True Love, Trust Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24074302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherwoodfox/pseuds/sherwoodfox
Summary: Martín is the one with the illness.Hanahaki-the disease of the unrequited lover, wherein flowers grow inside the lungs of the afflicted. Death by slow suffocation. Death of a broken heart.Martín knows his case is terminal. After all, Andrés does not love him. Andrés could never love him.(Or could he?)
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 79
Kudos: 273





	1. Part One

When Martín met Andrés for the first time, his entire world changed.

It wasn’t just a matter of biology. Andrés was handsome, of course, but that handsomeness was more than skin deep- it came from how he held himself, the way he looked at people, the words and manner of his speech. He was _striking,_ a star around which everything else simply orbited, and of course Martín was attracted. Andrés was unlike anyone else he had ever met. Martín hadn’t imagined that people could even _be_ like this- he had lived his entire life hiding the fact that he felt like the only _real_ person in the world; everyone else was hollow and pale, and Martín could look into their eyes and see all the way to the backs of their skulls, and when he wasn’t thinking of them they might as well cease to exist for all they mattered in the universe. His parents, his childhood friends, his graduating class, his employers, his many lovers- they were all just cardboard cutouts to him, all thinking and acting in the same predictable, basic, unresisting ways. ‘Egomaniac’? Psychology would say that Martín was the one who had something _wrong_ with him, but he had never been entirely convinced that it was true.

But _Andrés_ was real. Martín saw galaxies in his eyes, spirals of undocumented colours and designs of incredible complexity. He changed the atmosphere when he spoke, lit up entire rooms- yes, Martín was certain that when he went away Andrés was still out there, and had always been out there, because he was so different from the rest. He had a soul that existed in more than two dimensions.

Martín knew that Andrés saw these things in him as well. They gravitated towards each other, the only bright things in an otherwise dark expanse, destined to become a binary star. Was this what poets tried to imagine, when they described ‘love at first sight’? Never before had Martín felt this way about anyone. The passion that woke inside him was strong enough to destroy continents.

So Martín was legitimately shocked when he learned that Andrés had a girlfriend, and even more so when he met her, for she was nothing like him. She barely existed at all. How could that be? Did he really like such women-?

But no matter. They became the best of friends in only a few days. Martín’s entire world changed, and he realized within a month that he couldn’t go back to the time before, nor did he ever want to. He would follow this man to the ends of the earth- follow him up to Olympus to challenge the gods, even if it meant both their ruin.

“You must come back with me to Spain,” Andrés told him. “I’ve never met anyone like you. I have a great desire to explore you more.”

He accepted, of course.

~✿~

Martín felt ‘it’ for the first time after their heist- yes, _their_ heist, the first serious, _premeditated_ crime he had ever been involved in- stealing gold pips and diamonds from a watchmaker’s store. Andrés was glowing with his victory, and Martín felt that same glow inside himself, wild excitement followed by pure release. They had gotten away with it! Everything had gone according to plan, the police were but foolish dogs chasing their own tails! They had laughed and laughed, and in the heat of the moment Andrés had kissed his cheek, and Martín’s heart had almost burst. The place where his lips had been tingled. They were the only people in the entire world.

But then, as soon as they came across her, Andrés of course kissed his girlfriend and he kissed her on the _lips,_ and kissed her much deeper, and spun her around in his arms. She joined the celebration- she had known what they were going to do- and before Martín’s eyes Andrés took to one knee and pulled out a box with a diamond ring. A ring he had bought, not stolen- yet somehow, it was cheaper, wasn’t it? 

She accepted in an instant, and Martín felt his own ecstasy fade slightly. He was honestly surprised, but he scolded himself, for there was no reason to be. Andrés said he loved her, after all. He did not say that he loved Martín.

Thinking these things, he felt a slight constriction in his chest. A very mild discomfort, like he suddenly had less room in his lungs to breathe. But it was nothing serious, and he forgot it in a moment, and smiled and laughed and partied with the happy couple, as a best friend would.

“Fetch us the vintage, Martín- oh, you must be best man! I would not do it without you,” Andrés said, and he accepted, _of course._

~✿~

Days passed, and then weeks, and they were never caught, so they planned more crimes. More pieces of artwork, as Andrés said. It was Martín’s favourite activity, planning with Andrés- they worked so well together it didn’t feel like work at all, because everything was so _easy_ around him. Like magic, the ideas flowed when Andrés was in the room. And he couldn’t pretend he didn’t adore how excited Andrés became over him- how he would praise his cleverness, call him a _genius,_ embrace him from behind or run light fingers over his shoulders or wrap an arm about his waist. Martín’s heart always fluttered when he did that, did he notice? It was hard to say. Andrés wasn’t like other people, he didn’t think the same way, what was obvious in banal planes of existence probably barely registered to him. That was why he was so special, why Martín was in love with him.

_Because undoubtedly he was in love with him._

Every morning he would notice the tight feeling in his chest, and by noon he always managed to brush it off, even though it never really went away.

The marriage lasted almost two years, which was apparently a record, as Martín was later told. When Andrés divorced his wife- his third wife, haha, wasn’t this lovely news?- Martín’s hopes rose to the sky, even though his rational mind tried to quash them. Andrés became so much more affectionate, and now he had eyes only for Martín, and surely he understood how Martín felt, because they always understood each other so well. They executed another plan together, just the two of them, and as before it was perfect.

At home, safely away and reveling in their victory, Martín caught a chain of pearls between his teeth, leaning over Andrés where he sat.

“I’ll give you everything,” he said, lightheaded from drink and entirely honest. “I’ll give you anything you want. Absolutely anything.”

Andrés only laughed and turned away.

“Ah, you are so generous, Martín. But from you I already have everything I want.”

It wasn’t an unkind thing to say. Perhaps only a little thoughtless. 

The next morning Martín found himself coughing terribly when he woke, and for the first time the tightness in his chest was so that it was noticeably uncomfortable to breathe. But he made himself a lemon tea, and felt better by the evening, at least mostly.

~✿~

By the time Andrés met his next woman, the next ‘love of his life’ and ‘one and only’ and ‘proof of destiny’ (as if all the rest hadn’t been the same!), Martín was coughing like this nearly every morning. Every morning after a night spent with Andrés, at least. He didn’t know why. He had never been a sickly child, and though he was rather thinly built he used to suppose he had a good constitution. But he didn’t find reason to go to a doctor- he was a thief, now, not a respectably employed engineer, the fewer records he made of himself the better. And what was a small cough? Maybe the problem was the season, or the dust in the house.

Though he cleaned and took antihistamines, it didn’t help.

His heart always warmed when Andrés looked at him, or touched him in the smallest of ways, or smiled when he spoke. Martín always felt like he was flying whenever Andrés was around- he became invincible, a real Greek hero, and he would follow this man into any Chimera’s den because there was nowhere he’d rather be than by his side. Of course, it was a terrible tragedy that Andrés was so _straight-_ that he could never love Martín back, not in the same way- but one couldn’t have everything. Andrés told him he was greedy as a compliment, but wasn’t that really a flaw? Couldn’t he be content with what he had? 

Wasn’t this enough?

~✿~ 

When Andrés proposed to his fourth wife, Martín fell ill. The cough picked up, worse than it had ever been, and one night he found himself curled in a chair unable to stand, a kerchief pressed to his face. He was alone, Andrés and his fiancée had gone out. He was alone, and he felt so _weak,_ it hurt inside…

When the fit ended, Martín found on the kerchief a spot of blood, and a single red rose petal.

It was then that he knew he was doomed.

~✿~

Martín did not tell Andrés. He knew he couldn’t do that. Could he? No, no way. Even thinking of it filled him with fear. And well, why shouldn’t he be afraid? If Andrés found out, he would surely leave (he would surely be _disgusted)_ and then Martín would be dead within a fortnight. After all, Andrés _did not love him._

If he did, Martín wouldn’t be in the state he was. That was the main caveat of this...this _disease._ This was proof that Martín was not as special as he had always thought he was. He was just a moon, not a star, he was spinning in someone else’s orbit, not emitting any light of his own. Andrés did not love him.

And _fuck,_ that knowledge was more painful than not being able to breathe.

He would say nothing. As things were now, he could probably keep going for years, living off those affectionate looks and loving words, the occasional touch or playful flirtation. Martín knew he would never be cured, and worse he didn’t even have any regrets about it. He was _so happy_ with Andrés. He just wanted to be with him, work and party and travel, anything and anywhere was fine. He could bear the pain in his chest like it was nothing, as long as they were together, or at least as close together as they would ever be.

But after his fourth wedding, Andrés left for a few weeks, honeymooning with just his wife around Europe. Fondly, he had told Martín to go play by himself, find a boy or two to let off steam, and to anticipate his return.

Martín had smiled, and made a game of pretending he was _eager_ to be set loose, hungry to debase himself. Did he always lie like this? When had it started? Did Andrés really not see how dishonest he was being…?

When Andrés was gone, he gave up on faking strength, and ended up bedridden for days. He had a fever that burned day and night, and at times he coughed for _hours,_ hardly able to breathe. He wondered if he was going to die, and tried to force himself not to, but it was hard. In the early morning darkness, just before the sun rose, after counting sleepless and excruciating minutes, he wondered if he would ever see Andrés again.

By the time Andrés returned, tanned and glowing, Martín had lost ten kilograms and had coughed up an entire flower, in pieces here and there. A brilliant red rose. The thorns on the stem cut the inside of his throat, bringing up even more blood, and now it hurt to speak- but at the sight of Andrés he felt better immediately, or at least strong enough to pretend that he was. He lied again, saying he had caught a cold-

“What a waste of a vacation!”

“Is that so? Looking so disheveled- your lips are so swollen. Are you sure your throat isn’t sore from sucking cock?”

And that was the sort of thing Andrés always said, so it made Martín feel better. And what made him feel better still was the way Andrés looked at him as he said it- how he reached out and touched his cheek, seeming somehow _concerned,_ like he knew the pain was greater than Martín was letting on. Like he cared- like he cared very much.

But then he turned away and put his arms back around his wife, and Martín, like always, was placed to the side. 

~✿~

He had to work hard to hide his symptoms, especially when the lady of the house was around. The last one, wife number three, had liked him- she hadn’t seen him as anything other than a good friend of her husband’s (because she had been a vapid, thoughtless idiot), so they had always gotten along tolerably well. But this one didn’t like him much at all, and she _certainly_ didn’t like how fond Andrés was, didn’t like not being the only receiver of his affectionate looks and touches. When engaged she hadn’t dared say a thing, but after the honeymoon she became bold, making snide comments, sending pointed looks. At first Andrés laughed at her, seeming to think it was _sweet_ that she was so jealous, and so Martín laughed too. It was not entirely ungenuine. He did think she was _pathetic._ That was something to laugh at.

How Andrés could so adore her, he couldn’t begin to fathom. She wasn’t worth a fraction of him. She didn’t deserve a single word from his lips.

She also didn’t deserve to figure out what was happening to Martín. If she ruined it by sticking her nose where it didn’t belong- if Martín’s secret found Andrés’ ears from _her_ lips- well, that would be simply the worst way to go. So Martín was very careful. He flushed the blood-stained petals, and wiped away any residue on the toilet bowl, ensuring nothing would be suspected.

“We can’t keep a pet cat around any longer,” she said to Andrés one evening, while Martín was in the room. “Especially not an _unfixed tom._ They’re dangerous for babies, you know. We’ll have to get rid of it.” 

Andrés looked at her with little expression, and then he said:

“Darling, I’m taking you out tonight. Grab your bag.”

When they were gone, neither having said another word to Martín, a fit started. He felt like he was suffocating, and in an instant he was too weak to make it to the bathroom, collapsing on the couch instead, trying to drown the grinding sounds coming from his chest in the kerchief he had become accustomed to carrying.

A _baby?_

The tears he felt on his cheeks might have been summoned by the pain in his chest, which was so great he curled into himself with every spasm, but they might have just been from the heartbreak.

His blood soaked the kerchief in no time, and for several long moments Martín choked on what was coming up his throat- a hairball, just like the thing she called him, he felt _hysterical-_ until he finally managed to spit it up, sharp and tasting of copper.

A whole rose. A small one, but still whole, with every petal in place. The blood was just as red as the flower itself, so it didn’t look strange.

Crying and shivering, Martín looked at this thing- this little creation of his. To think, he had grown this inside his body! Wasn’t it beautiful? A testament to his love. Maybe that _bitch_ could have a baby, but she could do it for any man. Martín only made roses for Andrés.

Feverish and shaking from head to toe, Martín kissed the little flower, and then went out into the back garden to bury it. When he came back, he just had time to wash his hands and face in the kitchen sink before the front door opened again- he expected to hear conversation and laughter, but there was only quiet. 

Andrés appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“I’m divorcing her,” he said calmly, and Martín looked up in shock.

“But- but the _baby-”_

“There’s no baby,” Andrés said, smirking and bemused. “She just wants one. I don’t, so we’re at an impasse. And besides, she’s become very tiresome, hasn’t she? Frankly, I don’t know what I used to see in her at all.”

Martín stared, feeling too weak to say anything, and his silence seemed to catch Andrés off guard.

“Well, come help me pack her things,” he said. “We’ll leave them at the doorstep, she’ll figure the rest out.”

“Oh,” Martín managed. “Yes. Let’s.”

He made it a few steps before Andrés was suddenly holding him- how had he moved so quickly? He had been standing on the other side of the room...his arms were warm…

“On second thought, I will pack her things,” Andrés murmured close to his ear. “You should rest, Martín. You don’t seem well.”

He laid Martín back down on the couch, where Martín was sure he looked ridiculous, like some fainting maiden from a Victorian drama- but Andrés kissed his forehead, which made it all worth it.

“You must have been so shocked!” Andrés laughed, leaving Martín on the couch. “Thinking I was going to have a baby- oh, maybe one day, Martín! But not with a woman like _that…”_

And wasn’t he cursed? Martín felt so much better hearing that.

~✿~

The weeks that followed were infinitely more pleasant. Martín found the divorce proceedings greatly amusing, and Andrés was always so much more physically affectionate when he wasn’t with a woman. The pain went away almost completely, leaving only a tightness in his chest, but for all intents and purposes Martín was perfectly healthy. He did miss being able to breathe comfortably, but it was a small sacrifice. Andrés would never fall in love with a man, Martín knew that, so he contented himself with flirting and touching and living together, just the two of them, which was so near perfect it was heaven. He barely coughed at all anymore.

“You’ve survived two of my mistakes,” Andrés told him one night. “Doesn’t that make you special?”

And yes, Martín preened, because he knew he was.

~✿~

They were together like this for years.

What blissful years! They scoured the Mediterranean coast, causing mischief along the way. Sometimes they stole things, other times they engaged in illicit deals- selling jewels and paintings on the black market. They dressed finely, and ate only delicacies, and were surely the envy of all who met them. Martín realized he had never been happier. Even if Andrés sometimes had sex with the women he met on the dance floor, he never kept any of them around, so it only summoned a tickle in his throat. To keep up appearances, Martín had sex sometimes too- and it did feel good, every once and a while, to have someone stir up his insides, reduce him to instinct. The way that Andrés would kick out such men afterwards, or tut disapprovingly as he examined the bruises on Martín’s body, always warranted several days of easy airflow.

They bought the monastery in Italy, because Andrés wanted to settle down somewhat, and Martín was perfectly happy. It was a beautiful place to call home. Wasn’t this life luxurious? In the youth of Buenos Aires, when he had been a developing alcoholic clumsily working his way through an engineering degree, he never could have imagined a future like this. Crime, beyond drunken violence, illegal drugs? A life of luxury in Europe? A man like Andrés?

His life was nearly perfect. It was ninety-nine percent perfect. And what was one percent, against ninety nine? It didn’t matter.

They hatched the gold plan in this almost-paradise. A wholly wild idea, far beyond anything they had done before- but Martín thought it was possible. Anything was possible, if he was with Andrés. They were invincible together, and they were going to make the rest of the hollow world _stare._

“You truly are a genius, Martín,” said Andrés, gazing like his eyes could swallow Martín whole. “I could kiss you, I really could.”

“Then why don’t you?” Martín replied. “You know I’d make it worth your while.”

Andrés laughed, and took another sip of his wine, and the subject changed on his next breath- which meant that Martín’s own breath was stolen, and he found himself dizzy from more than the wine in no time, trying to hide the urge he had to cough. Ah, what a wretch he was. The happiest wretch in the universe.

~✿~

Then, Andrés met _Tatiana._

It was the same story as before. The same story all-fucking-over again. Andrés _fell in love._ Oh, how precious! The world was bright and darling once again, and Andrés wore rose-coloured glasses while Martín destroyed himself in the bathroom late at night, crying silently over the pain as his own roses bloomed on his tongue.

He was _pathetic,_ and he could never hate Andrés, and he couldn’t even hate the woman, because _of course_ she was taken by him, how couldn’t she be? This meant that all Martín had to hate was himself, and he did so with an incredible fury, shredding his ego the way his disease was shredding his body. He couldn’t quite wish to die early- but sometimes he did wish he had never been born.

“You can’t be serious,” Martín told Andrés scornfully, when Andrés showed him the ring. “What makes her any different from the others? It never works out for you, you know.”

“Oh, my dear, are you jealous?” Andrés said. “Don’t be, and certainly don’t be concerned, though I appreciate both. She _is_ different from the others, I know it. She’s the one I’ve been waiting for.”

So Martín shut his mouth like he always did, and pretended his heart hadn’t fluttered, hearing Andrés call him ‘my dear’. After all, the last one had only stuck around a few months in total. Surely, Tatiana would soon be gone, and Martín would have Andrés to himself, and he would be able to breathe without that lancing pain in his chest. He only had to wait.

~✿~

Around this time Sergio came to Italy to stay with them. Martín had met him before, once or twice, and liked him well enough- he was certainly handsome, in an awkward and too-tall kind of way, and he was intelligent so as not to be entirely insufferable. But Martín did not think about him when he wasn’t around. Whatever magic Andrés had, he had inherited it all.

Still, wasn’t he helpful? He had good insights for the plan, as well as a clever plan of his own, and that alone made him worth keeping around. And more, wasn’t it fun to make him uncomfortable, flirt with him until he blushed? Whenever Martín felt an itch rising in the back of his throat (which was so much more often these days) he only needed to say something ridiculously explicit, like ask Sergio if he wanted a blowjob, and he would be invariably left alone to tend to himself. His secret was still kept. 

The days until the wedding shrank, and so did the days until they planned to enter the Bank, and Martín began to feel giddy. It was like something had broken inside him, snapped under all the strain, and now what was left was floating away. He was always high, even when perfectly sober. He had started to relish the pain- he figured he deserved it, and it became so pleasurable to _ache,_ being lightheaded from lack of air was just like being drunk. He adored his little roses. Each one was perfect, and he was so proud to be making them, it was a pity he had to flush them down the toilet, or bury them in the monastery garden. In his wildest, most impossible dreams, he should like to make a crown of them for Andrés to wear. Wasn’t that an outrageous thought?

And best of all, _no one knew!_ Martín was _dying,_ he had been dying for years, and not one of them even noticed!

Or at least, he thought this was so. It turned out that Sergio thought about Martín a good deal more than Martín ever thought about him. 

~✿~

On the eve of the wedding, Martín was pleasantly drunk to celebrate the ‘bachelor party’, which had consisted only of some drinking and conversation amidst the male attendees, the rest of which- save Andrés, with whom he now sat- had already retired. Martín knew he had consumed the most of everyone, and fully intended to do it again tomorrow, since intoxication made the pain so much easier to bear- and also lessened the chance of his developing a fit when the vows were being given and having to suspiciously excuse himself. Besides, he didn’t want to miss the wedding, not really. He wanted to see every part of it. He wanted to look happy for Andrés. He had already prepared himself well for the inevitable, spontaneous (an oxymoron, but it was true) destination honeymoon that would follow and leave him in solitude. He had already gathered easily-prepared food for a few weeks, and medication for pain and fever, and was fully prepared to fight it out until Andrés came back to him. Until then, why not get drunk?

Andrés was looking at him over the rim of his wineglass, and looking very deeply, the way that Martín enjoyed most. Gazing like he couldn’t get enough of what he saw- that had to be a lie, but Martín loved pretending otherwise.

“What is it?” Martín purred, the alcohol making him comfortable, and consequently bold. “Not getting cold feet, are you? Not thinking of running off with the best man?”

Normally, Andrés would have smiled at a familiar quip like that, but this time it was like Martín hadn’t even been heard- and what Andrés said next banished that comfortable feeling in an instant, plunging him into cold water.

“Sergio says that you’re sick,” Andrés murmured. “He says you’ve been hiding this from me.”

Martín just stared at him, hearing a ringing in his ears over his fast heartbeat, too stunned to come up with something clever to say in response. A rabbit in the headlights- and such rabbits were roadkill.

“If this is so,” Andrés continued slowly, “then it must be terminal. This is the only reason for which I can imagine you doing such a thing.”

The expression on his face was impossible to read. Martín realized he had started to shiver, even though his bones felt hot.

“My mother had a terminal illness,” Andrés said, before Martín could even open his mouth. “Hellman’s myopathy. It was a terrible disease. It destroyed her. Luckily, I was tested, and have no predisposition to the thing. But you…”

Martín shook his head, but still he couldn’t speak, even though he wanted to- the words were there, words like _he’s wrong, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, I’m sorry for your mother but I’m fine-_ yet he couldn’t summon the air to say them. The leaves had closed over his trachea, and he could only barely breathe, nevermind summon the strength to speak.

“Don’t look so frightened, Martín,” Andrés said, and for the first time a smile turned up the corners of his lips. “I’m not upset. Truthfully, I think it’s rather charming that you should so spare my feelings. But there’s no need for it.”

He stood, putting his wineglass aside, and Martín felt dizzy, wondering if this was what it felt like when one was drowning, or what asthmatics experienced in an attack. There was television static growing at the edges of his vision, and still he couldn’t speak.

“Tell me what you have- and how long,” Andrés said (commanded). “Then we can look into fixing you. After the Bank- mm, or maybe the Mint, if we need money quickly- we will be more than wealthy enough to scour the world for a treatment.”

Martín shook his head, finding he was too weak to stand, realizing he had raised one hand to his chest. He closed his eyes for just a moment and concentrated, gathering air reserves.

“...how long?” Andrés said, louder, and there was a tiny note of something like _fear_ in his voice that gave Martín the last push he needed.

“That depends,” he rasped, and when he opened his eyes Andrés was looking at him very fiercely indeed. The fire in that gaze made him melt.

“The name, then,” Andrés said. “Tell me what you have.”

Martín shook his head. This entire situation seemed quite impossible to him. He didn’t have the faculties to lie, or consider the implication of a lie, or try to find the words that would result in the optimum future- he could barely breathe, and the back of his throat tasted like blood, and all he did was shake his head.

Andrés strode over to where he was sitting and grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back to bare his throat.

_“Tell me,”_ he snarled, and Martín shuddered all the way into his soul, a shuddering which broke the final locks.

_“Hanahaki,”_ he whispered on the last of his strength, and he looked up at Andrés. His expression had schooled itself in an instant, dropping from vicious anger to...nothing. Perfect calm.

“The lover’s disease,” Andrés said mildly. They looked at each other for a moment, and then suddenly he let go and turned away, walking out of the room and down the corridor at a brisk pace.

Martín sat there until he could hear his footsteps no more, and then the coughing began.

On this night, he did not produce any flowers- only thorns. Dozens of sharp, blood-stained thorns which wrenched their way up his throat, clawing the tender flesh there to pieces. They clung to the insides of his cheeks, resentful and unrepentant, and Martín had to drag them out at times by his fingers. He hadn’t the strength to make it to the bathroom, so the floor was soon covered in the hateful things, and splattered with his blood. He didn’t care. There was no point in hiding it, not anymore. There was no point in trying to control the damage done. Everything was ruined already.

Martín would attend the wedding, like he had promised, and then he was sure Andrés would leave him forever. Run off with his woman and never return, condemning Martín to death. That empty look of his- had it been one of disgust? Disappointment? Andrés had left, marched out of the room like he was unable to bear Martín’s presence any longer. Leaving him to choke on his own shame. It _was_ shameful, falling so desperately for someone who would never return his feelings, and following that person everywhere. An unwanted stray dog, that’s all he was.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

But he wasn’t going to die, not tonight. He would die when Andrés left, but first he had to see the wedding.

This determination ended the fit sometime around the witching hour, and Martín spat up his last thorn. Dizzy, he curled on the nearest couch instead of trying to make it back to bed, and fell asleep there in moments.

~✿~

The next day was the wedding. Martín could breathe well enough now to get by- but his throat and face hurt far too much to eat, so he only rinsed with mouthwash and gingerly cleaned his teeth, and even though both of these things were also very painful he did not fancy an infection. He also cleaned up his mess in the lounge to the best of his ability, putting the thorns in a kerchief and tossing them in the compost. Wiping away the blood. There was still a stain on the floor when he finished, but he didn’t have the energy to care.

He avoided everyone, taking great care not to be seen performing any of these tasks. He showered, and dressed himself finely for the ceremony in the same clothes he had planned. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he found he was surprised with what he saw. Was that really his face? How long had it been, since he had looked at himself straight on…?

He was thinner than even he remembered, and much paler, too. His hair, already so nearing translucent in places, seemed to be turning white, taking on a wispy quality despite its short cut. The shadows under his eyes looked like week-old bruises, deep stormclouds transforming him into something macabre. His lips and cheeks were slightly swollen, and when he opened his mouth cuts could be seen just inside it, where the thorns had scratched on their way out. What was this? Some victim of consumption from the eighteenth century? A vampire, freshly arisen from the grave? It was no wonder Sergio had been suspicious. Martín really did look sick. He looked like he was dying.

And that was the truth.

Suddenly surprisingly pleased, Martín leaned in and pressed his lips to the glass, kissing his own reflection. He was pretty, more than pretty enough to attend the wedding, and quite shocking to look upon, too. He liked that. Andrés would surely be repulsed by him, and that was what he deserved.

So he took a few shots of vodka on an empty stomach, and made his way out into the light.


	2. Part Two

The wedding itself was ‘beautiful’, of course, as beautiful as could be expected. The day was bright and sunny, and the bride wore a lovely dress, and the choir sang only love songs. How pleasant. Andrés sang too, and he was a hypnotist, everything he did made Martín dizzy- but that had always been true. 

Martín behaved throughout the ceremony, though he didn’t say much. There came the vows- he had already seen this once before, years ago, and so he had thought he could handle it, but the glowing smile on Tatiana’s face forced him to look away. For a moment, he truly hated her, but at the sound of Andrés’ voice he went back to simply hating himself. Then it was over, and he blinked away his tears, and applauded merrily with the rest.

During the ensuing celebration he got tremendously drunk off that sweet pink champagne in record time. He knew the others were alarmed by him, but Martín loved the attention- loved how they stared from the corners of their eyes, and clearly wished to avoid him, which he did not let them do. Was the red on the rims of the abandoned glasses Tatiana’s lipstick, or Martín’s blood? A guessing game, how fun! 

The party went on, he didn’t know how long, lost in drinks and music. He felt manic, enjoying himself too much, where had all the pain gone? He didn’t feel it. He kissed Sergio on the lips, and tried for the others too, but they were too quick. What a pity. In truth, he had never felt prettier in his life. It was obscene, but he _knew_ he outshone Tatiana, for she looked so _ordinary,_ and he was utterly wild. He wasn’t a star anymore, he was a black hole, and he wanted to suck up everyone’s eyes and feelings until he didn’t exist anymore. 

The only person who did not stare at him was Andrés. It seemed that as far as Andrés was concerned, Martín already didn’t exist at all. He did not say anything to him beyond what was strictly necessary for the ceremony, and gazed only at Tatiana, who spun so joyfully in his arms. Martín thought he had resigned himself, but this still hurt. It still hurt very badly. 

So he really wasn’t worth anything, even when it mattered most. 

Oh, forget that, there was no room for melancholy imaginings at a wedding. Dance! He must dance! And drink! Drink! _Die! He must die! He must DIE!_

Sergio caught him by the shoulders during a dance, and Martín blinked at him, trying to make sense of what was before his eyes. He felt like he might throw up. He really didn’t want to do that.

“Martín,” Sergio said gently. “You should sit down. You don’t look well.”

“No,” Martín hissed. ‘Look well’? How dare he say that? This was the man who had betrayed him, killed him, sent him off to the abyss! How _dare_ he give away someone else’s secrets? Who did he think he was? _Look well-_ “I don’t want to.”

Had Andrés told his baby brother the nature of Martín’s condition? It was hard to say, Martín didn’t know the difference between pity and distaste, and only from experience did he guess that it was the former in Sergio’s eyes. Well, the latter would have been better. Martín would much rather be despised than pitied. The shame was already too much to bear.

“Martín,” Sergio tried again, and Martín wanted to slap his hands away, which was difficult since he had inebriated himself quite pathetically- and as he tried something in his chest gave way. A jet of hot liquid shot up his throat and past his parted lips, a splash of it landing on Sergio’s face. Bright red cherry syrup.

“Oops,” Martín chirped, and he felt it drip down his chin as well. All of the sudden, nothing felt entirely real, and he giggled. “I’m sorry, Sergio, I’ll fix it-”

“Martín, you need a _doctor,”_ Sergio breathed, and he looked shocked, which was delightful, but his words were muffled as Martín dabbed at his face with a white napkin and practiced ease.

“There there, all better,” Martín cooed, and he remembered to wipe his own face next, but all thoughts silenced at the sound of Andrés tapping his crystal glass with a spoon. _Ting ting ting._ Martín had to turn to look. It was impossible not to.

“Thank you, everyone, for attending our celebration,” Andrés said, and Tatiana was clinging to his arm, her eyes bright with adoration. “This has been, I think, the most beautiful day of our lives. Of course it isn’t over yet- and so we must adieu. There are other celebrations for us to attend.”

He laughed a little as he said that, because it was a sex joke, haha! Funny! Tatiana buried her face in his shoulder, still grinning wide- but as Andrés put his glass back on the table he looked over at Martín for the first time.

Martín caught and held his gaze, but not to say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. They looked at each other for a long moment, or maybe it was only a few seconds, and Martín smiled at him.

Goodbye.

_I had a wonderful time._

Then Andrés looked away, turning back to Tatiana, and Martín realized the sun was setting, and that he was exhausted, and in a terrible amount of pain. The music had stopped playing. How long ago had it done so? He didn’t even know.

“You’re right, Sergio,” Martín murmured. “I’m not well. But I don’t need a doctor, so don’t worry. I think I’ll go back to my room.”

He gave Sergio a quick kiss on the cheek, which shut him up, and he left the wedding grounds with surprising ease, not stopping to bid farewell to the other guests, nor helping to clean away any mess. He felt like he was walking in a dream. The walls of the monastery glided past, and though he feared it no one stopped him, and it was an incredible relief to shut and lock his door. The silence was so much better than the music, even though he had assumed the opposite would be true.

Martín kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie, sat down on his bed. He supposed he should kill himself now, or something- he had plenty of ways of achieving that in this little room alone. The nicest would probably be taking tranquilizers, which he had in the cupboard. There were enough to make sure he would fall asleep and never wake up again. A painless way to go to a painless place- for no, Martín had never really believed in Hell.

But, though this was tempting, Martín decided against it. He was too intoxicated to write up a good letter, and he didn’t even know what he would put in it. He wanted to leave something nice behind, set his affairs in order. Maybe even grow another rose. Then, that would have to be the first order of affairs tomorrow, when he was alone in the monastery. He knew Andrés and Tatiana would be long gone, flown away to some exotic paradise, like wintering birds. Gone to Olympus on Pegasus without him. Andrés didn’t want anything to do with him, that much he had made obvious. He wasn’t going to stick around to say goodbye, so Martín would have to do that himself.

Martín sighed and lay down, curling into his pillows, not bothering to get undressed. His limbs seemed to weigh a hundred kilos each, and he was still dreaming. Why, this was more comfortable than he’d thought it would be- maybe he would finally get a good night’s sleep, uninterrupted by coughing fits, because at the moment nothing in his throat itched at all. Somehow, he was content.

~✿~

Martín woke very, very slowly. His consciousness was a bubble trapped on the ocean floor, and only gradually did it rise, the silent water brightening around it- changing from black to blue. When it finally broke the surface, it was to the sound of his own breathing, which was waves lapping at the shore.

Martín realized he was awake slowly too, as gradually sensations righted themselves, the firing of neurons sending electricity to his brain which interpreted a warm pillow, a soft bed, a blanket tossed across his legs. The taste of old blood in his mouth. He felt warm all over, in a pleasant kind of way, and he sighed- though this reminded him of the tightness in his chest, and in the exhale he heard a harsh wheezing, as the air scraped something on the way out.

Martín opened his eyes.

He remembered, now, that today was the day after the wedding. Andrés was gone forever. Martín would die soon. If only he could have stayed asleep a little longer, away from the coldness of this reality...but that was why he wanted to die, wasn’t it?

Martín started to sit up, and as he did so he met an incredible shock. The room was not as he had left it, and that was terribly frightening. The door was open, and his things had been moved around, he was sure he hadn’t covered himself in that blanket, and, and, what else? There was something attached to his arm-

The metal stand that supported the IV bag rattled loudly, and now that he was sitting up Martín started coughing, which seemed to be more than enough noise to summon a visitor to his door- a portly, bald little man he was sure he had never seen before in his life. What in the world was happening? Had Martín woken up in an alternate universe-?

_“Easy there, calm down!”_ The man said in Italian, but Martín kept coughing until he felt something hot and wet come up in his mouth, tasting strongly of blood. Martín tried to cover his face, his first instinct to hide it, but the man reached into the bag he was carrying and pulled out a tissue, which he held to Martín’s lips. Obliging (because there wasn’t really anything else he could do) Martín spat what was undoubtedly a fresh rose into the paper, and let his creation be pulled away with only a few sticky red threads to connect it, until those snapped onto his chin. Well, at least then he was able to breathe more freely, and attempt to catch his bearings. 

There was a needle taped to the back of his hand, and Martín didn’t know what the clear fluid was that dripped from the bag into his veins. Clearly not morphine, he still felt like shit. 

The little man tossed the bloody tissue into a garbage bag (he should be more respectful, that was art he was handling!) and gave Martín a reassuring, if somewhat skeezy, smile.

_“You understand me?”_ he asked, and Martín nodded.

_“Good. This-”_ he patted the IV stand firmly- _“is for dehydration, and some mild alcohol poisoning. You exhausted yourself, my friend. As for your other condition, you should see a specialist. I take it the lady isn’t at the house here? Unless she’s the new bride…”_

_“What?”_ Martín managed, and the man sighed, and began to repeat himself, speaking much slower this time. _“No, I understand, but what-”_

Sergio suddenly appeared at the door, all gangly one-point-eight metres of him, and he called down the corridor to someone Martín couldn’t see: “He’s awake!”

“Sergio, what the fuck,” Martín tried to growl, but it came out more as a whine. “Did you call a doctor?”

“No, it wasn’t me,” Sergio said, and he stepped awkwardly into the room, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Martín, you were unconscious for sixteen hours-”

“Aha, Martín!” said Andrés, appearing in the doorway behind his brother, and the sight of this was enough to knock all the air from Martín’s chest, like he had been punched. He could have sworn his heart actually stopped, and he put a hand to his chest to restart it, feeling it flutter like a trapped bird.

This was impossible.

“You had too much fun at the wedding yesterday, my dear,” Andrés continued, seemingly oblivious to Martín’s shock. Continuing on like nothing was strange- like nothing was _wrong_ here at all. “We needed to call someone for you. Now, what do you have to say to that?”

Martín stared at him for a moment, jaw hanging. The blood in his veins was pumping too fast to let him think straight. The sun had risen in the Eastern sky, when he had thought it would never shine again.

“...uhh, I’m sorry?”

“No, no,” Andrés said, grinning. “I think ‘thank you’ would suffice.”

Tatiana popped up over Andrés’ shoulder, her bright eyes and orange hair shining in what was probably sunlight, and now Martín thought that the room was becoming far too crowded.

“Oh, Martín, it’s good that you’re awake,” she said. “We were starting to worry about you.”

Martín coughed, and even though it was dry it sounded painful, and so it quieted the rest of the room. He couldn’t stop looking at Andrés. Drinking in his face, the colour of his eyes, the way he stood, the handsome blue suit he was wearing. Martín still wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t a dream.

“...you didn’t leave?” he asked in a very tiny voice. He found he was trembling- how pathetic.

“Where would I go?” Andrés replied, and as he said it the roguish smile faded slowly from his face. Why did he look at Martín like that? That wasn’t fair. 

“Your honeymoon,” Martín muttered, his voice somehow even smaller. Your honeymoon, the _actual_ moon, the burning beaches at the center of Planet Earth. _As far as possible from me._

“Oh, now, I don’t know about that,” Andrés said, and he turned to slip an arm around Tatiana’s waist, inviting her into the picture they made, framed by the wood of Martín’s doorway. “Tatiana and I are still planning it, aren’t we, darling?”

Martín bit his lower lip and nodded, sinking back down into his pillows. Now that the shock had worn off, he found he was still exhausted, and his heart had sunk back in his chest, dipping into the black pool it had been drowning in the night previous. What was the meaning of this? Dragging out the inevitable wouldn’t do any good, and Andrés wasn’t a fool. Did he really hate him enough to torture him with this? Martín didn’t understand, and he felt miserable.

He must have looked quite miserable too, for suddenly Tatiana piped up, saying:

“Well, we shouldn’t be disturbing you anymore! You need to rest. _Doctor, do keep an eye on him.”_

She dragged Andrés (who did not spare Martín another glance) away by the arm, and their laughter and conversation echoed in the hallway, growing steadily further and further away. Sergio hovered for a moment longer, gaze flickering back and forth between Martín and the doctor without really looking at either of them, until Martín hissed like an animal and sent him scurrying away.

_“You can leave too,”_ he said to the doctor in Italian, and the older man shook his head.

_“Not so fast,”_ he replied. _“I’ve been told there’s some concern about, well…”_

He made a two-fingered ‘gun’ gesture, and pointed it at his own temple, puffing out his cheeks and comically widening his eyes. Martín didn’t understand, and was quickly feeling the colour of his temper turn red.

_“What?”_

_“Oh, you know,”_ the man continued. _“They were worried. Apparently the groom had to break your door down.”_

Martín looked away sharply, feeling like he had been stung. He really was transparent, a book laid open for all to read- or maybe clever Sergio had figured this out too, and blabbered. He felt his face heat up. It was too embarrassing, and his chest was starting to hurt again. He wished he would just disappear. That would be better for everyone, then they wouldn’t even need to deal with a body, and he would be a burden no more. Disappear, like Andrés was supposed to have disappeared…

_“Well, you must be good friends with him,”_ the doctor continued. _“Pity he got the lady first, huh? She really is a pretty thing…”_

Martín buried his face in his arms and groaned. Was this really what they called ‘bedside manner’ in Italy, or was this man just a hack? He couldn’t even hear himself think- and at the moment, there were many important things to think about.

~✿~

A week passed in utter uncertainty. The doctor left on the first day, finally convinced that Martín did not intend to do himself harm (yet). He gave instructions to rest and take iron supplements, along with a note for and directions to find a ‘specialist’ living in Rome- a specialist in cursed cases like Martín’s, that was. He tore up the paper and flushed it. He did not want any help. He did take the iron supplements, though. He was beginning to seriously need them.

He was back on his feet by the second day. The only symptoms that remained were his usual ones, and he was more than accustomed to dealing with them.

But Andrés had not left, and this fact still dumbfounded him. He didn’t understand, but nor did he have the courage to ask, because if he didn’t Andrés might stay a few more days and if he did he would surely take flight- or would he? Martín had been so, so certain of this, and now he wasn’t certain of anything anymore. The reality he had so firmly built up around him was crumbling, and it did little good, for his chest still hurt.

Andrés did not speak to him, either, at least not about anything serious. It was like that private revelation on the eve of the wedding had never happened- no, that wasn’t quite true, because before then Andrés had been much closer, much more loving. Now he was distant. He spoke to Martín lightly, but never alone- only when dining or playing cards with the other guests, who (with the certain exception of Sergio and possible exception of Tatiana) only knew he had drunk himself to sickness during the celebration, and nothing else. Andrés never quite looked Martín in the eyes like he used to anymore. He never touched. He spent most of his time alone with Tatiana, presumably making love, though sometimes music could be heard from his room, so no doubt they were also dancing. They were so perfect together, weren’t they? Martín had to curl on the floor and cover his ears for hours, unable to bear the sound of the distant songs.

Martín teetered back and forth from madness during this week. In a way, his circumstances were a blessing- a chance to simply _see_ Andrés a few more times, after having given up all hope of such a thing. A chance to enjoy his company, smile at his jokes, commit his handsome face to memory. Wasn’t this wonderful? But on the other hand, the pain was becoming utterly unbearable. He didn’t even like it anymore. Andrés was torturing him, flitting about their mansion like this, pretending that nothing was wrong even though _everything was wrong._ Why? Maybe he really was telling the truth. Maybe Tatiana really did want to plan their honeymoon, so he was sticking around until she had settled- but Martín had trouble believing this, because Andrés wasn’t the sort to let a woman’s opinions get in the way of _his_ romantic envisionings (which they were, after all, only a part of, albeit a crucial part nonetheless). But hell, it could be true! The only other option was that Andrés was being cruel, and Martín couldn’t quite believe this, either.

Andrés was a rather cruel man, but...not like this. Martín knew him far too well to really think he would derive pleasure from such a blunt, thoughtless game- one without hidden cards to play, without a ‘twist ending’. Or would he? That was the problem. Martín wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

~✿~

Another week passed.

Martín was in purgatory, not allowed to ascend to Heaven or descend to Hell, both of which would be a relief of some kind. He barely slept, and paced back and forth in his room at night, telling himself to write his suicide letter but never being able to settle on the first word. He lost all his appetite, and so at meals he would put on a show, shuffling his food around his plate and lifting bites to his mouth only to put them down again and say something, or laugh. He drank a little, compulsively and out of habit, but the smell of alcohol now made him nauseous (he really had overdosed at the wedding, whoops). He cleaned and dressed himself, but only for the company, and spent as much time as he could alone in his room or wandering the back halls of the monastery, dizzy and anxious and feral. One morning, when combing his hair, a few wispy strands came out, caught in the teeth. He was falling apart, and he didn’t know if he should be delighted or terrified.

...and of course, there were still flowers growing in his lungs. 

Trying to live with Andrés so distant made them fat and hungry, eager to suck up his air and all his strength. The heads of the roses grew bigger, the thorns thicker and sharper, and they tore so viciously at the soft tissue of his lungs and throat that every attack birthed pools of blood to drown them in. It was hard to clean up all his messes now, with how weak his body had become. Feverishly, he would dream of using them to spite Andrés, and just leaving them there for him to see- puddles of sick from the family pet, who clearly needed to be put down. But he would never actually do that. He was still too ashamed.

Worse than all of this, Martín began to hallucinate. When he was alone in his room at night, fancying the pills in his cupboard or the noose he could make with his sheets, he would hear quiet footsteps in the corridor outside- so quiet they might have been imaginary. They were imaginary, weren’t they? Whenever Martín flung open his door (which he could no longer lock), there would be no one. No one, or No One, making him the blind cyclops? 

(Martín could not think of a worse fate than blindness.)

When he was hiding away in a bathroom or cupboard or shadowy alcove, his body ripping apart pieces of itself to discard, he would hear these footsteps again- something passing by with a purpose, opening doors or windows down the corridor. In these times Martín became irrational and _paranoid,_ thinking delusionally that whatever this thing was it was _looking for him,_ and that its intent was malevolent. He would always silence himself when he heard it- cover his mouth and let the spasms of the suppressed coughs wrack his body until the air was quiet once again. He felt like a child, afraid of monsters hiding in the darkness where he couldn’t see. He was afraid of a fate he couldn’t imagine, but he was also afraid of anything (even a demon) seeing him at his worst. If nothing else, he still had vanity.

When such fits were over, Martín was never sure if there had ever been anything there at all. Perhaps he heard a passing monk, and his exhausted brain played fancies with the sound, turning the shadows into a lurking beast. Maybe even the sounds were made up, constructs of his fever, but just as with Andrés he was too afraid to confront it, and find out either way. Well, he was a coward, but he had known that already. He deserved to die. Some nights, he wished Andrés would leave and let him.

He realized he was more miserable now than he had ever been. Andrés had pulled away so completely, it wasn’t like before, when Martín had at least been his dearest friend in the world, his partner in travel and business and crime. Now, they were like strangers. They did not discuss the gold plan, or any plan, not anymore.

During the night, the blood he spilled was often diluted with tears.

~✿~

Then, one night, Martín’s wish was granted.

The evening began quite ordinarily. He was passing time in the study alone, letting the sun set outside, and feeling a chill in his fingertips that he had not the energy to remedy. Anemia could be added to his list of conditions, he supposed. But at the moment he was not truly uncomfortable. It was hard to breathe, as always, but he did not feel an attack coming on. The monastery was very quiet, which he enjoyed, and he had with him a bottle of wine he probably would not drink, but whose presence he found comforting anyway. On the table before him there was a sheet of paper on which he had scribbled a few nonsensical attempts at a goodbye- above the line where he wrote, he had crossed everything out, scarring the fine white paper with thick black ink. He really did not know what to say, for nothing he ever put down seemed good enough. He began to consider that maybe he didn’t really want to kill himself- but how could that be? He couldn’t imagine any other future, and before this torturous and lonely period he had been so sure-

These thoughts were interrupted, as Martín heard the footsteps again.

This startled him, for it was the first time he had heard them in a relatively sound condition- he did not feel feverish or delirious the way he usually did when _hallucinating._ But he couldn’t pretend he didn’t recognize that familiar, purposeful cadence, clearly approaching the study from the corridor. He found himself begin to stand, an irrational fear rising inside him, because monsters surely weren’t real but still there was something _coming for him,_ and he had thought it was all in his head-

But what appeared in the doorway was not a monster, it was only Andrés.

Martín made a very ugly noise- a sigh that was shredded to ribbons trying to escape his lungs- and fell back into the chair. Andrés did not look at him, even though he surely knew he was there, instead walking slowly over to the chair opposite where Martín sat. Martín saw now that one of Andrés’ hats had been left there, which explained his presence, and with resignation (because of course Martín’s heart had risen desperately in his chest, the moment he had appeared) Martín supposed Andrés would take it and leave, ignoring the inconvenience of his former friend’s presence, the way he was now accustomed to.

But Andrés did not do that. 

Instead he looked over at Martín very slowly. His gaze started on the floor at Martín’s feet, and then crawled all the way up his body, finally landing on his face. Martín shivered. There was something burning in those eyes. He did not know what it was.

“How are you, Martín?” Andrés asked in a low voice, and Martín shivered again.

“Well enough,” he replied weakly, and a bit of resentment slipped into his tone as he added: “As well as could be expected of me, given the circumstances.”

“The circumstances,” Andrés repeated with a small smile. He had not smiled at Martín like that since before the wedding- since before his distance had begun. He had not looked at him with such...what was it? Affection? Passion? He daren’t think so. Martín forced himself to turn back to his paper, though it was a useless thing, pretending to be nonchalant even though his heart was racing in his chest.

“Martín,” Andrés continued. “For years you’ve been going around in circles, feeling this way. Isn’t it time you moved on?”

…

The _fuck?_

Martín’s eyes squeezed shut for an instant, hearing that. It was absolutely the worst thing Andrés could have said. The most foolish, thoughtless thing. He hadn’t imagined Andrés even capable of such... _ignorance,_ such _stupidity._ This was a bad joke, and Martín was the butt of it. What in the world was he doing? It wasn’t pain, this hot thing rising in Martín’s chest, nor was it the head of another flower- it was _anger,_ pure and clear and fiery. His eyes opened, and they were dry.

“We can move on to the wine, if you like,” Martín growled, and he lifted the bottle to the head of the desk, wiggling it sarcastically in the air. The words were innocent, but in his mouth they sounded like slurs.

“I’m not drinking that with you. I’m going to dinner with Tatiana,” Andrés replied, and he smiled slightly, gesturing with one hand at his attire, which was more than typically fine. Instead of saying something elegant, Martín hissed at him, his teeth clenched. Andrés raised one eyebrow, and somehow he seemed a little taken aback, though why Martín couldn’t imagine.

“You’ll think of me,” he continued, though his tone of voice was a little less certain than before. “But I won’t think of you-”

_“I know,”_ Martín snapped. “You don’t have to spell it out for me. You’re _very clear.”_

Andrés looked at him, mouth slightly open, and he took a step back, like the size of Martín’s glare had forced him to make room for it. 

“Right,” Andrés muttered, and then he spoke again, projecting this time- like he was delivering a line on stage. “Of course I also feel what we have between us. It’s unique, extraordinary, marvel-”

_“Fuck you, Andrés!”_

Martín was _exhausted._ The vessel of his patience and quiet devotion- his complete, unconditional adoration- that Andrés had spent so many years eating up was now empty. On top of that, he was a wreck, strung out on anxiety and lack of sleep and the fraying of his every nerve. The result of this winning combination? Martín was _pissed off,_ and his long-buried pride reared its head like a cobra, baring its fangs at the insolent wolf. Martín knew what Andrés was doing- he loved scripting encounters like this, writing the future like scenes in a play, knowing just what to say and do to make his life into his ideal, theatrical _romance._ Martín knew there was a part laid out for him here, the lines Andrés had written for him were hovering in the air, but he wasn’t going to say them. Not this time.

“Fuck you,” Martín said again, and he stood, taking sudden and incredible pleasure in the dumbfounded expression on that beloved face. “You’re a fucking coward, and you know it!”

“I’m not,” Andrés said automatically, and then he tried again. “My brother was right. We must part ways. I must leave you, for, uh-”

“I don’t _care_ what Sergio says,” Martín interrupted, and he was really yelling now, the strain bringing heat to his cheeks and blood to the back of his throat. “I don’t care what _you_ say! You know I can’t ‘move on’- you know that better than anyone! God, you are such a _piece of shit!”_

“Sometimes distance is the only way to find peace-” Andrés muttered, and Martín threw the wine bottle at him, which he easily sidestepped, letting it shatter on the wall behind him.

“I can’t _believe_ you!” Martín continued, making his way out from behind the desk, picking up one of the wine glasses to point menacingly at Andrés’ chest- and possibly throw, if he felt the desire to. “How _dare_ you treat me like this? I’m not one of your _wives!_ You can’t give _me_ some grandiose speech and go running off with your tail between your legs, not after all I’ve _done_ for you, you useless fucking _coward,_ you won’t even _try-”_

Andrés stopped interrupting, and he put his hands up in a surrender, walking backwards to keep away from the end of the glass as Martín chased him around the room, spitting vitriol until he finally pushed him back out into the corridor. The candlelight there changed the atmosphere, and when Martín went to inhale (needing fuel to continue his tirade) he found he couldn’t, and he shuddered, his free hand coming up to clutch his chest.

“I’m sorry, Martín,” Andrés said, taking advantage of the silence. Martín couldn’t read the expression on his face- he looked almost _pleased,_ but that made little sense. “But I must go. Tatiana is waiting for me, you know that.”

Martín glared at him, a glare filled with all the strength of his hate, and he found an itch rising in his throat, unwilling to be contained.

_“Get...out,”_ he rasped, and then he was struck by weakness, the glass slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor. The fit started at full strength, and as he leaned back against the doorway he felt blood spray into his mouth, hot and coppery and cloying. 

Andrés smiled at him, and suddenly he was the one with all the power- a return to normal, then. He looked every bit a god, standing there in the candlelight. Powerful, beautiful, untouchable.

“...I’m sure that one way or another, time will bring us back together,” Andrés said, but over the pain in Martín’s chest and the ringing in his ears the words were distant. Tears welled in his eyes, hot and wet and _blinding,_ and by the time they cleared Andrés was already gone. Vanished, just like a ghost, like an illusion made by Martín’s own madness. But he had been there. He had been real. He had been realer than anything else.

Was that the last time Martín would ever see him?

Martín crawled back into the study on the last of his strength, mindful of the shattered glass, and curled against the chair where Andrés had left his stupid hat, having forgotten to take it with him. Martín lifted the thing to his face, running his lips over the soft velvet, inhaling the faint scent of Andrés’ shampoo. He really was gone, now, wasn’t he? He was gone forever.

Martín continued to cough, and at first the spasms were light, but they grew heavier without stopping. Each inhale was tiny and desperate, barely sucking in enough air to warrant the shuddering exhale, which tore at the insides of his throat and lungs. This rapidly became the worst attack Martín had ever experienced in his long history with the disease, and in what felt like no time at all everything was covered in blood- his face, his chest, the chair, the floor. The first rose was huge and luscious, with petals a more vibrant red than any other before, and when it was out Martín stared at it where it rested on the floor- poor thing. All its efforts were for nothing, having made itself beautiful for someone who would never see it. Poor, pitiful, lovely little thing.

This rose did not come alone. Soon, another one was forcing its way up Martín’s windpipe, and he made dying sounds as it sought to be born, clawing towards the light with fervour. It was just as perfect and beautiful as its predecessor. 

On this night, there were no stems or thorns, nothing to make cuts in his tongue or lay traps in the blood on the floor. There were only flowers. Flower, after flower, after flower. Martín had wrongfully assumed that lungs were a smallish organ, and could only hold so much- but tonight his body seemed intent on wringing from him a bouquet.

Martín knew why. He realized why sitting there on the floor, panting like a wild animal, surrounded by the virile blooms of his creation. Things were different tonight. He knew why, and tears filled his eyes again, heat dripping down his cheeks.

Every time before this, Martín had been mourning himself. He had known he was fated to die, and had lamented it, in the same self-interested way he had always done everything. Admiring his own supernova before his sky finally went dark. He had been mourning an impossible future, desires that would never be fulfilled, something as intangible as a dream.

Tonight, Martín had no interest in himself. What he mourned was the past, the present- he grieved that which was _real._ Every moment, every touch, every smile. Every time his heart had fluttered, every time he had laughed, every joy and frustration and ecstasy and sorrow. 

Love.

He loved Andrés.

He loved Andrés more than anything in the entire world.

He loved him so much it was painful, and it was wonderful, and it was what made his life worth living.

Love, love, love, love.

Love was what filled his heart to bursting, and made his blood run through his veins, and made the sky a million magical colours. Love made the air he breathed taste sweet, even when he could barely breathe it; love was what had created each one of the roses tumbling from his lips. Red roses, the flower of romance.

And it had been such a romance.

When it was over, Martín felt empty, hollow like a beached seashell. His head spun, and he was certain he could cry no more, all the saltwater in his body was drying on his lips and cheeks and throat. The flowers were too plentiful to count, spilling from his lap and scattered across the floor, and their perfume made the air sweet. Surprisingly, Martín found his breathing easy- easier than it had been in weeks. There was nothing left inside of him to surrender.

Wouldn’t it have been nice, to tell him? Wouldn’t it have been nice to say it at least once?

_I love you, Andrés._

Martín sighed and closed his eyes, his head falling back against the seat of the chair. His heartbeat felt slow in his chest, and there was a numbness in all his extremities, his thoughts turning insubstantial in the swirling black behind his eyelids.

Well, that was fine.

He had truly loved someone, and that was more than enough.


	3. Part Three

“Wake up, Martín.”

Martín heard someone speaking, but he did not open his eyes. He felt a deep cold inside him, a drowsy kind of cold that did not make him shiver, but instead kept him still. He wasn’t entirely sure what had become of his body- it was as if most of it was missing, for there was a perfect stillness in him that he was sure he had never achieved before. Perhaps he had disappeared. Even his heart was silent.

“Wake up, my love.”

He did feel something, though- a warm caress on his cold skin. A touch to his cheek. Was someone there? Where was ‘there’, anyway? Martín did not know. He did not remember what he had been doing (for he must have been doing something), what had resulted in his current state. Perhaps he had been dying.

“Ah, you have far outdone me, Sleeping Beauty. Frankly, I am ashamed.”

A voice. A familiar voice, he figured, but the words spoken made little sense, for the meanings of them eluded him, trying to understand was like aiming to catch mist between one’s fingertips. But he did not spend any time concerning himself with this, for the next thing he felt was a _kiss._

It was a slow, firm kind of kiss, the kind that surely only a man could give, a pressure from steady lips so warm they almost burned him. It was not a shy kiss, not hesitant nor concerned with itself in the slightest, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. When it broke, Martín gasped, his chest rising to chase what was drawing away. The feeling of air in his lungs surprised him. He wondered if he hadn’t been breathing.

“There you are,” the voice continued, and Martín’s eyelids fluttered, but the light that peeked through beneath them was painfully bright. His body came back to him in pieces, he found it strewn across the floor, and he had dull aches in his neck and lower back from lying in such an uncomfortable position, propped up against a chair. He groaned, and the warm fingers stroked his face, encouraging his blood to resume its journey through his veins. He tried to move his fingers, and still they were numb, his eyes unwilling to open. He wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to be awake, the real world was a cold and miserable place. Couldn’t he stay in the peaceful dark a little longer?

“Do you need another one?” asked the voice, and suddenly Martín realized that he _knew_ that voice, that it was Andrés! But then, of course it was him- somehow, Martín couldn’t imagine anyone else. For him, there had only ever been one man.

Then he was being kissed again, and the movement of those hot lips against his was more passionate than before- a kiss that pushed _deep,_ demanding something from him, and though he had not the strength to reciprocate he did let out a very tiny moan, the sound escaping without his permission. The lips fell away, and Martín opened his eyes.

“Andrés,” he murmured, feeling mild surprise and equally mild contentment, to see that familiar face. He did not know now why he had been hesitant. The lights weren’t really so bright after all- they were only candles, casting a dim and comfortable glow about the room, and Andrés was smiling at him. A very welcome sight.

“Yes,” Andrés said softly. “I should hope you’re not thinking of anyone else.”

His face really was quite close, wasn’t it? Martín hummed, barely listening to what he said, and nuzzled back at the warm touch on his cheek like a pet. It felt nice. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been touched like this by anyone. He tried to move- wanting to return the touch, maybe- and as he did so he found he was covered in flowers- oh, yes. These were his flowers, his lovely red roses. That was convenient. He picked one with clumsy fingers and held it up to Andrés, admiring the colour against his lips.

“Look at this,” Martín murmured, his voice weak and soft, intended for one listener only. “I made it for you. Do you like it?”

“Of course,” Andrés replied, and he wrapped his free hand around Martín’s, so they were both holding the flower, and then he kissed the petals lightly. “You’ve outdone yourself, darling. This is really an extraordinary display. I absolutely had to see it.”

“Yeah,” Martín murmured, enjoying the warmth of Andrés’ hands. It was so nice that Andrés was here. Andrés who he loved so much. Andrés…

...Andrés, who had married Tatiana, and ignored him for weeks, Andrés who had come in here spilling bullshit- Andrés who he had thrown the wine bottle at- Andrés who had told him to _move on_ and left him here alone- Andrés who was never coming back-!

Martín sat up abruptly, which sent a lancing pain down his spine and on instinct he gripped the back of his neck, letting go of the rose. Andrés was very close, his scent filled the air around them, and Martín’s forehead brushed the fabric of his suit. Martín suddenly felt like he was very much awake- at least, he was certainly uncomfortable enough to be awake- but that didn’t make any sense. From a combination of this renewed anxiety and the chill that filled his whole body, Martín began to shiver.

Had Andrés _kissed him?_

“Oh, my God,” Martín muttered. “Oh my _God.”_

“Mm, I think you’ve remembered something,” Andrés said, chuckling. His arms wrapped around Martín’s neck and lower back, pulling him into a close embrace, as though the pressure would stifle his trembling- but this only made it worse. “I was wondering why you were so sweet.”

_“Andrés,”_ Martín hissed, and he had to take several deep breaths over the other man’s shoulder, eyes flickering around the room for an explanation where there was none. Still, he was unwilling to break the embrace for propriety’s sake because it felt _so good,_ easing aches inside that he hadn’t even realized were there. When he had collected his bravery, he tried to return it, running his fingers over the textured back of the suit, first tentatively- but when Andrés did not complain it became a vice-grip, and Martín clutched him close as if arms alone were enough to keep him there forever.

“Hush,” Andrés murmured, breath hot in his ear. “You’re alright.”

“You _left,”_ Martín whispered, the edges of his words sharp enough to cut glass. “You left- you said- _Tatiana,_ and something about time, and, and _moving on-”_

“Oh, no, no,” Andrés said soothingly, and he stroked the back of Martín’s head in a way that made him feel the touch all over his body. “Don’t fret about that. You mustn't excite yourself, I think you’re still very ill.”

“So what?” Martín asked, and though it was painful to do so he pulled back, needing to look Andrés in the eyes. He couldn’t stand the hopes rising in his chest- they had been killed already so many times over, another such blow might destroy him worse than death ever could. “You were lying to me?”

“No,” Andrés replied innocently, and he smirked at something in Martín’s expression, brushing a thumb over his lips. “I did not lie to you once. Listen.”

Martín raised his eyebrows, incredulous, and still he was anxious- desperately thirsty to suck down whatever words Andrés would say next. He didn’t understand what was happening, and he was afraid of the brightly-coloured suspicions bubbling in the back of his mind, of the little voice saying over and over: _did he kiss me? Was it a dream? What if it was real? Did he kiss me?_

“I said I had to leave you,” Andrés began, and in his smile there was a kind of satisfied mischief, like that of a magician about to reveal his trick. “And I did, I left you in this room. I also said that time would bring us back together- and what is time, exactly? It can be a millennium, a century, a decade- or only a few hours. Look, time has passed, and we are back together again.”

Martín processed this for a second, and was unsatisfied, his mind still racing at a thousand kilometres an hour.

“Tatiana,” He said, posing a challenge, trying to look fierce and unsure if he was successful in hiding how much he enjoyed the way Andrés was touching him.

“Yes, Tatiana,” Andrés replied calmly. “I did go to dinner with her, where I had the marriage annulled. She was upset, of course, but overall I think she took it rather well- better than the last one, anyway. I admit, I did not much think of you, as I had to focus on placating her.”

“Why?” Martín asked, the word barely more than a sigh, and furiously he dug deep into the colours of Andrés’ eyes, determined to pin down any trace of falsehood or deception. The words Andrés would say next were the most important things in the world.

“I tried to tell you,” Andrés said, mock-petulantly. “You weren’t having it.”

Martín whined, shaking Andrés slightly by the shoulders, which made him laugh.

“Very well,” he said. “I love you, Martín.”

Martín looked at him very, very closely, holding his gaze as the seconds stretched out across eternity. But he didn’t see any lie. He knew what such things looked like, he knew Andrés _so well,_ and he didn’t see a single one.

Martín looked away, his shaking renewed, and he breathed slowly in an attempt to stop the tears that were rising in his eyes. Strange, his chest felt much looser than it usually did- he might have thought his breathing deeper, were he not busy thinking of other things.

“Prove it,” Martín muttered, and he heard Andrés laugh.

“Fine.”

Then Andrés took Martín’s face in his hands and kissed him in a way Martín had never been kissed before. This time, he felt it all, and every last wall came down- Martín threw his arms around Andrés and kissed him back, and it was better than anything he had dreamt of because it was _real-_ the heat of his body, the pressure of his lips, the exploratory tongue that sent lightning down his spine. As it turned out, Andrés was a very good kisser. But that was hardly a surprise.

When they were both out of breath Andrés broke away to press burning kisses to his cheeks and jaw, muttering:

“I’ve never felt anything with those women remotely similar to what I have with you,” and Martín couldn’t even think of interrupting, letting his head be rolled back so lips and teeth could find his neck, licking away half-dried blood. “You’re perfect for me- we’re soulmates, at least to ninety-nine percent.”

“Ninety-nine,” Martín mumbled dizzily, and Andrés grinned at him.

“Yes. That last pesky one percent had me making a fool of myself- I took far too long to figure it out. You’ll have to forgive me.”

“I’ll think about it,” Martín replied, but in truth he already had. It was the easiest thing in the world. Indeed, it was easier to forgive than it was to believe- parts of his heart still felt numb, despite the scorching passion of that kiss, he was still bruised from thinking so many times that he was to be abandoned forever.

“So,” Martín continued, and Andrés looked up, still engaged in his current project of sucking a mark into Martín’s jugular, which was so distracting he couldn’t make his thoughts sit straight. “Why did you- you didn’t lie, but- you know how that _sounded-”_

_It hurt, Andrés! You hurt me very badly!_

“I already told you,” Andrés murmured into his skin. “I had to see this.”

He ran a hand through the bouquet scattered across the floor, collecting a handful of roses that he let fall through his fingers.

“You kept hiding it from me,” he chuckled. “But they’re _mine,_ aren’t they? I had to have them- had to see you like this. What did you do with the others? Burn them? Bury them outside?”

“I flushed them down the toilet,” Martín said, suddenly feeling unbearably dizzy, somehow the mixed fumes of the roses and the evaporating wine spun his mind around.

“What a waste,” Andrés sighed.

“Asshole,” Martín muttered, and he ran his fingers through Andrés’ hair, letting him continue to ravish the fragile skin under his jaw, amazed at just how _close_ he was. How he didn’t seem to mind doing the impossible, doing what Martín had never thought he would do-

“But you- you’ve said you like _women,”_ Martín said, since it seemed the time to surrender all his anxieties he voiced this one too. “My body, Andrés- I thought that was the problem.”

“That’s the one percent I was talking about,” Andrés said with a smile. “The mitochondrion of my desire.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Martín asked, and though he sounded bold he instinctively tightened the grip he had around Andrés, still afraid he was going to slip away. In reply, Andrés shrugged, like it didn’t matter at all. Ridiculous- hadn’t that been the most important thing in the world?

“I have excellent self control,” he said. “And the mind is a malleable thing, is it not? Consider something as simple as operant conditioning- men are just like rats, we can learn to relish new behaviours through _rewards._ I’m sure you’ll help with that, won’t you?”

Martín shivered, a wave of heat running across his whole body at the implications of the proposal.

“...you think you can change your sexuality for me?” Martín murmured, running a finger over Andrés’ cheeks and brow, feeling prickles on his skin that were almost uncomfortable, and a faint itch in his throat that he ignored.

“Mm, not quite,” Andrés replied. “I won’t change it, I will simply update it. I will be attracted to women, and Martín Berrote.”

Martín started to laugh, but part way through the sound twisted, and the air caught on the inside of his lungs- he was coughing again, and he was so weak the force of it shook his entire body, even though Andrés was holding him.

“Well, no operant conditioning tonight,” Andrés said, and his demeanour seemed suddenly _concerned,_ and this time Martín believed it really was. “I read an article about your disease on the way back from the restaurant. You’re going to need a lot of rest- and maybe a doctor, if you have trouble clearing the roots.”

“Oh, please no,” Martín sputtered, thinking of the gossiping little man from the wedding. Andrés stood and helped Martín do the same, which was desperately needed for just how weak he was, how all his limbs shook.

“No doctor? Did you not like the one I found for you?”

“He thought I was in love with Tatiana,” Martín murmured, and he let himself be guided back to his room where, all business (because he was still coughing, on and off) Andrés helped him change into his nightclothes and took a hot washcloth to his neck and face. His touch was very warm and more than welcome, but he was right- Martín wasn’t really in good enough condition for arousal, and so once the act was done he collapsed bonelessly onto the bed, feeling too weak to even pull up the covers.

“One moment, love,” Andrés said to him, and he kissed the back of Martín’s hand like he was a princess from some fairy tale- Sleeping Beauty, was it?- and he returned a few moments later in his own nightwear, the meaning of which made Martín practically purr with delight.

“The article said that physical closeness would ease your recovery,” Andrés said as he climbed into the bed, turning off the light as he did so. “So don’t worry. I’ll make up for all your troubles.”

Martín held onto him, exhausted though he was, determined that Andrés should not slip away while he slept. Was he really satisfied with this? He couldn’t yet say, it was all too new, Martín’s entire world had been turned on its head and the effects of it were still spreading, a shockwave in the galaxy that would touch every wandering comet and idle moon. 

“What about...moving on,” Martín mumbled in the dark, even though he already felt fast asleep.

“Well, that’s true, isn’t it?” said Andrés, both incredibly close and achingly far away, his voice falling down a long dark tunnel to reach Martín’s consciousness, which was rapidly drawing inside. “It’s time we both moved on to better things.”

That was the last thing Martín heard that he understood. Tomorrow, he would discover if this had all been a dream, but for once he allowed himself a very small, private hope that it hadn’t been.

What was that he saw, appearing over the distant horizon? Maybe it was the future.

~✿~

When Martín woke, Andrés was gone.

A pale pre-noon light streamed in through the windows, but that could have meant anything- Martín could have slept a few hours, or a hundred years. He was alone in the bed, that much he swiftly confirmed, reaching out across the mattress in hope of finding Andrés tucked away in some secret fold of fabric- but no, he was gone.

Martín sat up, desperately afraid, wondering if his memories of the night previous were all a lie- had the candlelight sparkled so prettily because it had been a dream? No, please, it couldn’t be so, he couldn’t bear the despair rising in his chest, he couldn’t bear being given _everything_ and then having it all taken away, he _couldn’t-_

Martín’s frantic eyes snagged on something- a piece of white cardstock lying askew on the other pillow, knocked out of place by his frenzy. Martín grabbed the thing and brought it close to his face, for across it in black ink there was written a message in a familiar, elegant scrawl. What the note said was this:

_Martín-_

_If you are reading this you have woken too early. I am making breakfast. Wait in bed for it._

_Love,_

_Andrés_

Martín exhaled very quickly and tossed the note aside, stumbling out of the bed and throwing on his housecoat, uncaring of how the chill of the floor outside penetrated his bare feet and made his bones ache, how he trembled as if with fever even though he felt cold all over. These things didn’t matter.

Martín half-ran to the kitchen, his own breathing loud in his ears, and how could it be his fault he was so anxious? For all he knew the Andrés from last night could have been enchanted by a mischievous fairy king, and with the dawn found his enchantment broken, happy to return to his lawfully wedded wife. Martín hated that play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, for dreams were the stuff of heartbreak. 

But when he burst into the kitchen, Andrés was standing there over the stove, still dressed in nightclothes himself. He turned, seeing Martín in the doorway, and like it was nothing at all beckoned him with one lazy hand.

“You’re disobedient,” Andrés said, and when Martín was within reach (because of course he had come over, what else would he do?) he wrapped an arm about his waist, pulling him seamlessly into a kiss. 

Perhaps Andrés had intended it to be a light kiss, but Martín did not let him go, his hands finding Andrés’ neck and jaw, lips making it deep and desperate- needing to test the physicality of this other presence, to make sure Andrés was really there.

“Good morning to you, too,” Andrés muttered when Martín pulled away, gasping pathetically against his cheek, unwilling to stop touching- but unimaginably, Andrés seemed equally unwilling to release him, making no move to relinquish the grip he had around Martín’s waist. Martín’s heart felt fit to burst. How in the world had he ended up here? This was everything he had ever wanted, and everything he had known he would never have.

Andrés dipped a spoon into the sauce he was making on the stovetop and, after blowing on it lightly, held it up to Martín’s lips.

“Try this,” he said, and Martín did, little spikes of lightning flaring up across his spine because Andrés was spoon-feeding him, hahaha, this was _absurd._ Martín barely tasted anything, his mind too consumed with the fond look in Andres’ eyes.

But, “Good?” Andrés asked, and Martín nodded, and Andrés finally gave him a little push, sending him off through space towards the kitchen table, where he sat on a chair with his feet curled up beneath him. He noticed, now that he had eyes for the rest of the world, that the table had been decorated with a flat bowl of water, upon which an assortment of brilliant red roses floated. The sight made him blush. He knew those weren’t just any flowers- and it was a little amazing, to see how they had not wilted in the slightest overnight.

“I’ve been reviewing my memories of you,” Andrés said calmly. “You’ve lost a terrible amount of weight- and you’re faded. It may be a while yet before you feel like yourself again.”

“And whose fault is that?” Martín murmured, folding his housecoat around himself in an attempt to feel a little less exposed, what with how his heart was laid out on the table.

Andrés tutted to himself.

“I know, I know,” he said, and Martín smiled, but then he coughed, air tearing at his lungs. He felt like there was something scraping at the base of his windpipe, and it didn’t help that he was still very cold, and that the sores inside his throat from hacking up thorns had not healed entirely. A while yet, he said? Great.

Martín tried to work up a sulk, feeling as ill and uncomfortable as he did, but it was hard with the way Andrés looked at him. What a heat there was in that shadowy look. Martín wondered if he felt guilty- and even the thought of that, without confirmation, gave him such delight it was impossible not to have his spirits rise.

“Hey,” Martín chirped, resting his head on his folded arms. “Say it to me again.”

“...say what again, darling?”

Ooh, that was close, Martín shivered at the endearment because he had never been on the receiving end of _that_ one before- but still he pushed on. He was greedy and selfish, Andrés knew that.

“I think you can guess.”

Andrés chuckled and looked back at him, and something burned very deep in his eyes, something Martín was sure he had never seen glittering there before, when he had enviously watched Andrés look at his women.

“I love you, Martín,” he said and, unable to bear it a second longer, Martín hid his face in his sleeves.

“I love you, too,” he replied in the smallest voice he could muster, his thoughts drowned out by the powerful beating of his heart.

~✿~

After breakfast- which had been Eggs Florentine- Martín took a very purposeful shower, cleaning away the last of the sweat and blood and misery from the night previous, letting the warm water sink into his bones. Some of his hair came out when he shampooed it, but only a little bit, and he couldn’t really bring himself to be concerned. He wasn’t dying anymore- this was a wild thought, it ran about inside his head like a mustang, and he found himself smiling at nothing. Lovestruck. Maybe the fairy had dripped magic in his eyes by accident, not knowing that he already adored the frightening wolf.

When Martín felt cleaner than he had been in weeks he dressed himself in real clothes, though at Andrés’ insistence (which could not be refused) he found himself in an oversized knit and slippers, an attempt to keep the inherent chill of the monastery’s stone walls away from his weakened form. It was all very lovely. Martín still felt flighty- as though if he looked away for too long, or became complacent, Andrés might vanish like mist in the morning light- and he tried to reason that he did deserve to be spoiled, after all he had gone through, after spending so much time thinking that what he deserved was death. He wondered how much of these feelings Andrés understood- probably all of them, before the wedding they had rarely needed words to each know what the other was feeling. The rift between them created by that hellish fortnight was closing swiftly, and even though it was bizarre Martín was certain that it wouldn’t be long before the scar from the thing was little but a memory. Maybe that wasn’t really fair- Andrés had hurt him, and kept him waiting for _so long-_ but Martín couldn’t bring himself to sour the joy he felt with resentment, not yet, at least- and perhaps not ever.

~✿~

Over the next few days, Martín hardly left Andrés alone. He pestered him, teased him, and flooded him with affection, gnawed at him like he was a bone to see if he could be worn down- but everything Andrés did and said suggested otherwise. It seemed he did not want to be left alone. Though the sight always made him flush, the multitude of flowers that Martín had spat up on that fateful night decorated surfaces across the monastery, and they did not wither or fade in the slightest, staying lively in a bright scarlet bloom.

“What do you love about me?” Martín asked one afternoon, playing confidence while he put his head down in Andrés’ lap, still breathless with the hidden expectation that Andrés would find it too much- but all he did was stroke Martín’s hair, which made him feel very much like the pet of a supervillain, and how was that a lie? They were surrounded by such sinful things as stolen jewels, blueprints, model blimps. 

“There are things anyone would love about you,” Andrés replied softly. “You’re charming, and quick-witted, and intelligent. But for me…”

Martín couldn’t stop staring at him. God, he was so handsome. He had missed him so much. All he wanted to do was sit there and soak it in, every drop of attention and affection, and joyfully he was becoming more and more certain that the well these things came from wasn’t going to dry up.

“...you’re different from everyone else. It feels like I’ve always known you, even before we met- and I can hardly picture the world without you. You have always been my dearest companion, indeed, the most important person in the world…”

Martín was warm and hazy listening to this, feeling the waves of those gentle touches run down his spine. He was dissipating into a pale golden light, and even in poor health he had never felt better in his entire life.

“I love that you’re self-absorbed, and I love that you’re _wicked,_ I love your taste, your manners, your ideas. I love talking with you, working with you, having you by my side. Indeed, I love you quite surely, Martín Berrote.”

Martín sat up, attracted to the words like a moth to light, and when Andrés fell silent they kissed for a moment. Andrés didn’t seem to mind such kisses at all- in no way did he act like they were pleasureless or for Martín’s benefit only. Martín thought this to himself, a little spitefully: maybe Andrés wasn’t quite as _straight_ as he had convinced himself he was. 

“...so what took you so long?” Martín whispered in his ear, their cheeks still brushing, warm to cold. A contrast that created lightning storms.

“Oh, well,” Andrés murmured. “Let’s just say I got caught up in my own head for a while.”

“For _years,”_ Martín whined, pulling back so he could look Andrés in the eyes. He was smiling- cruel, terrible, wonderful man.

“Yes. I am very sorry,” Andrés said in a voice half genuine and half mock-sweetness. “Let me know what I can do to make it up to you.”

Martín hummed, pretending to consider this, overjoyed that they were _playing_ again, because the absence of such easy closeness was what had been _destroying_ him in these last, terrible weeks. But before he could arrive at an answer- flirtatious or honest or outrageous- a sound reached both their ears: rapid footsteps (which gave Martín a flash of residual anxiety) and a woman’s voice, calling, but still too distant for picking out words.

“I expect that’s Tatiana,” Andrés said quietly. “I did tell her she could come back to collect her things.”

“I see,” Martín replied, hearing her voice approaching, along with the slamming of assorted doors. “I think she’s looking for you.”

“Yes,” Andrés agreed, and he lifted Martín off his lap, laying him down against the pillows of the couch they had been lying on. “So, you stay here, love. There’s no reason to exhaust yourself over something as dull as an ex-wife.”

Martín only raised his eyebrows at that, not bothering to reply: he was _disobedient,_ wasn’t he? He let Andrés leave the room, waited until he heard his footsteps no more, and then he rolled off the couch, padding quietly down the hall after him. 

He found the pair soon enough. They were in the room they had shared- the marital bed. Andrés, he knew, hadn’t slept there once in the last week- though he had removed all his things. It was a rather pathetic room, now, but Martín did not look in, instead curling beside the open door to listen, feeling a little like some ill-meaning fairy spirit himself.

“Am I going to get an explanation?” Tatiana was saying, and her voice was hot, but controlled. Accompanying her words was the clatter of clothes-hangers and muffled thump of the garments themselves, which was a good sign- she _was_ intending to leave. Martín did not know exactly what he had expected of her, but he supposed he was the kind to assume the worst.

“I already gave you one,” Andrés replied, and his voice was so flat it made Martín smile with a kind of vindictive jealousy- one of his ugly qualities that Andrés claimed to adore.

“I wouldn’t call that an explanation,” she snapped. “What was it- you ‘discovered the difference between love and true love’? What does that mean, that I’m suddenly not good enough for you?”

“Oh, no, you were great,” Andrés said with a small laugh. “Better than most. It was love, Tatiana, but as I said, not true love.”

Martín considered this for a moment, and ultimately the pleasure of being called ‘true love’ washed away his bitterness at Andrés having loved anyone else at all (even though that bitterness had been festering for a good many years). After all, Martín _knew_ it was true love. He had known from the very first moment they had met.

“So you’d rather be alone than with someone who is less than true love?” Tatiana asked, and she zipped up her bag. “Because I know you’re an artist, and a romantic for sure, but that just seems arrogant to me.”

“I never said I wasn’t arrogant,” Andrés murmured. “And I told you that such a day might come. I told you it would be unexpected.”

Martín smirked a little at this. So, the man wasn’t entirely incapable of learning from his mistakes.

“And what should I do now?” Tatiana said after a moment, but she no longer sounded truly angry- only tired. She was probably unhappy. It was cruel, but Martín didn’t care. He had been unhappy, too. 

“Whatever you want,” Andrés replied. “You are a powerful woman- and I don’t say that to flatter. Go out and find your own true love.”

There was a quiet that stretched on for some time, and Martín wondered what they were saying to each other with their eyes.

“Will you kiss me, one last time?” Tatiana asked.

“No,” Andrés replied. “I will not do that.”

Martín heard Tatiana sigh, and then her heels clicked on the stone floor, approaching the door. Martín made a half-hearted attempt to stand, knowing there was nowhere to hide himself in time, and it came to nothing anyway for his strength faltered, having been leeched out through the bare soles of his feet. He found he was shivering.

“What the-” Tatiana jumped to one side when she saw him, as startled as anyone would be, finding a person who wasn’t supposed to be there. _“Martín?”_

Martín just shrugged at her, finding he was suddenly a little too dizzy to come up with something clever to say. She looked at him, and then she looked into the room where Andrés stood, and slowly her (dry) eyes widened.

“No _way,”_ she breathed. “That’s- that’s not-”

She looked back and forth between them a few times, raising one hand to point like she intended to say something- a declaration, a warning, a question, who knew? All that escaped her lips was a small, incredulous laugh.

Then she turned away, marching down the corridor with her bag slung over her shoulder, her strides long and fast enough to make envious a soldier.

“Ridiculous,” she said, seemingly to herself, the walls catching her voice and sending them back to the room. “Fucking _ridiculous.”_

Andrés stepped out of the room when she was gone, looking down at Martín with a bit of incredulity of his own.

“And just what are you doing?” he said, and Martín smiled, but what rose in his throat was not a reply, but rather a cough- the sudden, harsh beginning of another fit, and a nasty one, too. Martín was so exhausted from them it was disheartening. His muscles recognized this pain, and they shook in a familiar way, worn thin from the same kind of abuse day after day after day.

Andrés was instantly all soft touches and gentle kisses, and he managed to guide Martín to the kitchen down the hall, where he placed a kettle full of water and ginger-roots on the oven burner. Martín couldn’t speak, each exhale was another spasm that wracked his body, and he found he was too weak to do anything but sit. Parallel to his eyes were his own bloody flowers, as bright and happy as water lilies in their makeshift pond, and he wondered if he was making more to join their number- though this didn’t make much sense. After all, Andrés hadn’t kissed Tatiana.

_Andrés hadn’t kissed Tatiana._ Ha!

While the water was heating Andrés came back to him, rubbing his shoulders soothingly, and this felt wonderful even though it didn’t help with the copper taste rising in Martín’s throat.

“That’s it,” he said softly, and Martín was sure Andrés was enjoying this, playing the part of the doting lover. Well, Martín enjoyed it, too. “You can do it.”

When the water boiled, Andrés poured the bright-smelling mixture into a large silver bowl, resting it beside Martín’s head so he could breathe in the steam. Martín barely noticed in his distress, for something was crawling up his windpipe, something that did not feel like a flower at all- something thick and choking and veiny, not scraping so much as suffocating, and the prickles of horror that broke out across his skin were enough to set him on the edge of panic.

Andrés muttered a few other things, probably words of encouragement, but Martín didn’t hear him, struggling desperately to get the thing out, the steam on his face mixed with sweat and tears, and he _hated_ this-

As soon as he felt it on his tongue Martín reached deep into his mouth and _pulled._ What he felt between his fingers was slippery but firm, a clump of vegetal rope- ah, these must be the roots of the plant, wasn’t this a good sign? Martín was too delirious with disgust to really notice, and with a bitter gag he managed to tug the thing the rest of the way out, feeling the last threads sneak up his throat like rat’s tails. He tossed it away the moment he was free of it and retched, reaching for a tissue to wipe the inside of his mouth.

The roots looked a good deal like some kind of parasite- a creature made of winding tentacles, like one of Lovecraft’s aliens, dark red and glistening with a coat of mucus and old blood clots. Martín looked at it for an instant, and that was enough to make him retch again, curling away from the thing like it could hurt him. The rest hadn’t been this disgusting. The inside of his mouth tasted like something dead.

“Oh, lovely,” Andrés said, somehow without sarcasm, and he reached over to pluck the thing from the table, perfectly comfortable holding it in his hand. “It came out whole. Rest here a moment, Martín, I’ll be back.”

This time, Martín did obey, dragging the bowl of hot water up to his face so he couldn’t see the smears on the table where the roots had been lying. He was still shivering with a kind of animal revulsion, and he inhaled carefully, testing to make sure there wasn’t still more of the awful stuff inside him- but his breath caught on nothing. 

Indeed, now that Martín was paying attention, he found it was very comfortable to breathe. Oh, there was a slight pain in his chest, somewhere in the center of his abdomen- likely a pulled muscle- but the breathing itself was perfectly unhindered. He found he could inhale deeper than he had in...what? Months, years? Indeed, he had not breathed so freely in _years!_ The daily tightness in his chest that he had become so accustomed to, that he had accepted as necessary for so long, it was gone now. He felt like he had just put down a weight he had been carrying around without realizing it. He was free of something he had forgotten was a burden. He felt light, and there was a warmth in his blood that hadn’t been there before, and the smell of the ginger-water refreshed him, like he had just woken from a very deep sleep.

Andrés came back into the kitchen, a pleased grin on his face, wiping his hands on a towel.

“What did you do with it?” Martín asked, and he found even his voice sounded different- the timbre was clearer and brighter, strong in a way it hadn’t been since his youth in Buenos Aires.

“I planted it in the garden,” Andrés said happily. “I hope it will grow into a rosebush.”

Martín rolled his eyes, but the smile was infectious, and once more they were talking with each other as fondly and easily as they always did.

He supposed this meant he was now truly cured.

...

~❀~

That night, emboldened by his change in health, Martín asked Andrés to bathe with him. He said it with a sly smile, his tone of voice whimsical, leaving a clearly marked exit should Andrés choose to refuse. After all, he used to say things like this all the time. It had only ever been a joke, syrup to wash over the desperation in Martín’s heart, the pain in his chest at every denial. But this time, the denial did not come.

Anxiety evaporated easily in the warm, steamy air, melted away by how deeply they kissed, their skin shining from the water and made gold by the candlelight. Through exploratory touches they traced maps of each other’s bodies, fingers and tongues outlining mountains and valleys, hidden marks that could not be seen under secretive clothing- taking note of places of pleasure and pain. Martín had Andrés in his mouth, fulfilling a very old desire, proving himself capable of meeting all his filthiest promises. It was _easy_ to bring Andrés over the edge, so much so that Andrés himself seemed surprised, and Martín bathed in the attention and his own pride as much as he did the water.

What was more surprising, for Martín at least, was that the gesture was returned- and he found he was _easy_ too, for even if Andrés was clumsy the sight of him in such a position was pleasurable beyond the stuff of Martín’s wildest dreams.

“How was that for ‘operant conditioning’?” Martín asked when they were done, unable to take his eyes from Andrés.

“Not as hard as I thought,” Andrés replied softly, though he looked away at something in the water. “Better than I thought.”

“Well,” Martín murmured sweetly, “it seemed pretty hard to me.”

Then they laughed, and while this final knot had been tied between them, not a single one of the others had come undone, and they were as comfortable with each other as they had always been. Down the drain with the bath water went the last of Martín’s doubts, and when falling asleep he found himself pleased to realize that for the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t at all afraid of what he might find in the morning.

~❀~

Weeks passed, and weeks turned to months, and they spent winter in the monastery together, with few visitors and no desire for visitors, either. Martín realized he had been wrong before, when he had thought of his life as a paradise, for those half-sick years were nothing in comparison to this. Martín had not thought he was even capable of a happiness as great as he felt then. He was sure he did not deserve it- but then, neither of them did, and so it didn’t matter. Were it not for regular day-to-day inconveniences and discomforts, Martín would think he had died the night Andrés had pretended to abandon him, and found himself inexplicably in heaven.

Come spring, they found a new growth in the garden. The thing Andrés had planted was turning into a rosebush after all.

~❀~

“I know what you can do,” Martín called from the couch where he had lazily thrown himself, buzzed from the evening’s entertainments. Andrés was standing in the window with a glass of sherry, his figure brightened by moonlight, a harsh contrast of white light and blue shadow. Andrés turned to look at him. Ah, now that was a vision indeed.

“...pardon?”

“Don’t you remember?” Martín cooed, smirking to hide the earnest edge glittering under his heartbeat. “You told me to let you know what you could do...to make up for all your slights.”

_For hurting me, and making me wait, and for being such a fucking bastard._

“Ah, yes. Go ahead then.” Andrés replied lightly, having undoubtedly heard the words Martín had not said. “Tell me your wish, darling, and we’ll see if I can make it come true.”

Martín bit one corner of his lip, sucking in air to fill his lungs, a cheap substitute for proper courage. But even if he was afraid, he knew now without question that the figure in the moonlight was _real,_ not a figment of imagination, not an illusion cast upon a paper wall. Andrés wasn’t going anywhere. _Andrés loved him, and he wasn’t going anywhere._ That was reason enough.

“You could marry me.”

A smile appeared on Andrés’ face, a slow-growing and roguish smile, a smile that Martín recognized as one of _pleasure._ Martín exhaled, releasing air he hadn’t known he was holding. Andrés raised his eyebrows slightly at the sound, and took a sip of his drink before looking back out the window.

“You’re right, I could. That’s been legal for some time now.”

“Legal,” Martín echoed sharply, and he opened his mouth to say something- he wasn’t sure what- but Andrés continued before he could.

“And six is a good number to settle on, don’t you think? Six is a lovely number, bright red, just like your flowers.”

“Six is a devilish number,” Martín countered, sitting up so he could see a little clearer, so blood would flow to his head and make sure his brain was recording this memory. “So it suits you _very_ well.”

Andrés chuckled at that, turning back to Martín, and they watched each other for a moment, perhaps both daring the other to speak, or merely marvelling at how the eerie light changed the colours of their eyes.

“Well, put it out of your mind this instant,” Andrés declared. “Forget you ever mentioned it. _I_ will propose, and it will be the most delightful surprise of your life.”

Martín grinned, an expression that was sharp and glowing, part mischief and all joy. This, then, was nearing the end of the fairytale- and didn’t that mean there was a ‘happily ever after’, waiting just around the bend in the road?

“You _like_ proposing,” he purred. “You like it more than being married, from what I’ve seen.”

“Oh, yes, I like proposing,” Andrés replied. “And I like weddings, and I like honeymoons. But you’re right, after that things tend to sour- after that, I always realize that the person I’d rather be spending my time with is _you.”_

“Then it’s perfect,” Martín said with a sigh, flopping back down against the pillow. “But _I_ already knew that.”

~❀~

The summer air was sweet, and a bright wind was blowing upon the white-sanded beach, whipping the waves into a dance. Seabirds could be heard calling, and even their crass voices turned to song as Martín threw the bouquet into the ocean- red roses, not ones he had made, but lovely nonetheless. He ran into the water after them, giddy with his own laughter, not caring if sand or salt stained the bottom of the white suit he was wearing.

Andrés chased him, and after a moment of play he let himself be caught, and it didn’t matter if anyone saw how they kissed, for they were the only people in the world. The gold bands on their fingers were stolen, not that the officiant knew that, and they glittered as brightly as the sunlight itself.

If Martín had to guess, he would say that never had there been a more beautiful day in the history of humanity, and never a happier man. The roses had come loose from their tie and washed up against their ankles, pulled by the movements of the sea- but no one had eyes for such things, as all found it impossible not to look at the newlyweds, and the newlyweds found it impossible not to look at each other.

“You’re the very picture of health,” Andrés murmured, brushing a finger over his lips. “Pink cheeks and glowing eyes. A beauty. I must remember this- I need to paint it later.”

Martín let him look as long as he could, and then kissed him again, and everything was perfect.

~❀~

_“And for a honeymoon, I propose this: the greatest heist in the history of Spain- nay, the world. Together, let us go and steal time, and when we’re finished we will be as rich as kings, and as powerful as gods, and we will have left our signature in the stars.”_

~❀~

“We don’t know each other yet, and I want it to stay that way. I don’t want you using your names, nor asking personal questions...and of course, no _personal relationships.”_

(Quiet laughter, a shared look.)

“I want each of you to choose a name- something simple, numbers, planets, cities…”

(Some squabbling, lighthearted discussion. Ah, so many of these people were children- it was good _they_ were there to keep the band in check.)

“It will be cities, then.”

“I choose ‘Berlin’.”

“Then, I will be ‘Palermo’.”

_~Fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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